Chapter 7. Daimon Hellstorm

The moment it opened, sound spilled through the magical wards—lively voices, clinking glasses, women’s laughter…

[Doc threw a party?]

"Mr. Blaze," greeted an Asian man in traditional robes. "How may I assist you?"

"Hey, Wong," John grinned at the Sorcerer Supreme’s assistant. "What’s going on?"

"Tonight is an astronomical event known as the Valerian Millennium," he stated, as if that explained everything. "The alignment of the stars is best observed from New York. Master Stephen has invited the world’s greatest sorcerers to witness it from his observatory."

"Guess my invitation got lost in the mail." John stepped forward.

"Master Stephen didn’t warn us about the Ghost Rider," Wong blocked the path, assuming a kung fu stance. "You should leave."

"Want a taste of the Penance Stare?" John's eyes flared with fire.

Wong quickly shut his eyes, covered them with his hands, and even turned his head away. The bastard knew—no kung fu technique could protect him from the Penance Stare.

"Tell your master I want to talk." John patted him on the shoulder and stepped deeper into the banquet hall.

[I shouldn’t have pulled that trick. Turning the transformation on and off so fast still burns my eyes. And Wong didn’t deserve that. But I couldn’t help myself. It pisses me off that I wasn’t invited to the big magic party!]

The air was thick with the scent of angel’s trumpet, mixed with something spicy and bitter—John lacked the alchemical knowledge to pinpoint what exactly was tickling his nose. There were no lights, only candles, their flickering flames imbued with dragon fire magic. Strange clearly wanted to impress his guests.

Archmages and sorceresses lounged in armchairs with glasses of elven wine, discussing the tectonics of magical currents, the rising prices of alchemical ingredients, and the latest political squabbles involving the new king of the dwarves.

John winked at the Scarlet Witch—she smiled shyly before returning to her conversation with Doctor Voodoo about sacrificial rituals.

[Morbid girl.]

John nearly choked on his gum when he spotted a figure in iron armor and a green cloak among the guests.

[Doctor Doom?! Strange invited a damn supervillain but not me?!]

A fiery rage climbed through his bones. John forced himself to focus on the other guests—and then he saw him. A blond young man in a red suit, shirtless, displaying a hellstar-shaped scar. Daimon Hellstrom, son of a human woman and a demon. He claimed his father was Satan himself—the one from the nine hundred and ninety-ninth circle of Hell who forged the Cross of Zarathos—but John doubted it. More likely, his mother was a Satanist, and she got knocked up by some lowly imp. Not that it mattered.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

[Daimon… That bastard sold me a fake soul-saving scroll! And now he’s standing there grinning like nothing happened. Guess I’ll go improve my mood.]

"And then this huge archdemon steps out!" Daimon was showing off to two young sorceresses. "Teeth this big! Claws like swords! My entire group ran—but not me!"

The girls listened with polite expressions, but their eyes betrayed boredom. Daimon, as always, didn’t notice.

"I summoned my family’s trident on the spot!" The hybrid made a dramatic gesture. "Blasted him with hellfire—boom! The archdemon ran for his life!"

"Yo, Daimon!" A voice like thunder. A heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder.

"Holy—!" The hellspawn hero flinched and turned cautiously to see a grinning face.

"Relax, hell princess, I’m not here for your soul." John tightened his grip. "Just for my money."

"Oh… hey, John. Didn’t know you were invited too."

"The Doc made sure to invite his guest of honor first," John lied without blinking. "I’m surprised they let in a scammer like you."

"Excuse me, ladies," Daimon quickly retreated from the girls, who were finally starting to show interest in the conversation. "A gentleman’s matter requires privacy."

They moved to a secluded corner, away from prying ears.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Daimon hissed. "You’re ruining my business!"

"I’d love to ruin something else," John clenched his fist. "When are you giving me back the money for that useless scroll?"

"Useless?" The hellish merchant blinked. "The scroll didn’t free you from Zarathos?"

"No." John raised his hand, showing the Cross still hanging from his wrist.

"Oh, damn," Daimon scratched his scar. "Look, I’m not a scammer. I was sure the scroll would work. I can swear—come on, you know a demon or hybrid’s oath can’t be a lie."

"Oaths mean nothing. You could’ve erased your own memory after the deal." As a seasoned demonologist, John waved off the so-called 'foolproof method.' "Alright. Let’s say—just say—I believe you. Where did you get that scroll?"

"I traded for it with Lord Dormammu," he mouthed the last words silently, careful not to anger their host.

[So Daimon’s already dug himself so deep into hell that he’s dealing with Dormammu. I’ll keep that in mind… if I even have a future to plan for.]

"Mister Blaze," Wong announced, his face unreadable as he approached. "Master Strange is ready to see you."

"Not saying goodbye, Daimon," John clapped him on the shoulder. "We’ll have a nice chat later about how you’re gonna pay me back."

Wong led him to the other end of the banquet hall. Away from the guests, near the fireplace, Doctor Strange sat behind an armchair. For the occasion, he wore a black suit but kept his enchanted cloak and the amulet with its unblinking emerald eye—always watching, always warning its master of danger. A true Sorcerer Supreme. Stylish, yet ever prepared.

"Welcome, John," the mage tore his gaze from the flames and studied his guest. "You’re looking well. Living off dirty money treating you nicely?"

"Can’t complain." John dropped into the chair across from him.

"Intimidating Wong just to sneak in—not the best way to impress me," Strange chided, though a slight smile quickly returned. "I assume you have a very good reason for interrupting me."

"You assume correctly," John nodded, loosening his tie. "How about a drink? We are at a party."

"Of course." Stephen said something in an unfamiliar language to Wong. "Now, your choice, John. My collection spans the entire universe—surely even a seasoned magical traveler like yourself can find something to his taste."

"I’ll have whatever that big guy’s having." John pointed.

"Dwarven ale," Wong identified it before heading off.

Stephen smirked slightly, as if he’d expected that exact response.

[God, his smug, all-knowing attitude pisses me off.]

"So, what does the Ghost Rider need?" the mage took a glass of thick, blue liquid from a tray. "Shouldn’t you be preparing for your own funeral?"

"Heh, changed my mind about dying." John sprawled comfortably in his chair, taking a sip of his beer. "Decided to live as long as possible—and you’re gonna help me do that."

"Fascinating outlook," Stephen arched a brow. "The disintegration of a soul isn’t something that can be cured. Speaking as a doctor."

"Yeah, I know, but thanks for your expert opinion," John grinned. "I don’t need you, Steve. I just need access to your library."